


The Writer's Block

by Feavel



Series: One-Shot Dumping Ground [2]
Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Real World, Gen, don't mind me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-21
Updated: 2016-06-21
Packaged: 2018-07-16 09:24:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7262284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feavel/pseuds/Feavel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Exactly what it says on the tin. One would think.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Writer's Block

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this after watching way too much KickthePJ, so it reads a lot like something he'd write and he's already done a writer's block story anyway, so that's why I tagged it Fantastic Foursome. Sorry if I got your hopes up for some actual Fantastic Foursome, but you'll have to look elsewhere for them--I can't write real people to save my life.

I’d love to write, I really would, but I have recently been visited by the dreaded Writer’s Block. The fables, the legends, told to children to make them behave, they’re all true. _You just need to think harder,_ people say to me. _You’ll find inspiration. Listen to some music. Make some music. Take a warm shower. Something will come._ None of them believes in the Writer’s Block. I’ve asked every college professor that I know, every man, woman, person, alien alive with some sort of degree in creative writing. Every single one of them scoffed at me and sent me away. But I take the world’s advice with a grain of salt. I’ve seen it, and I know what I saw. That horrid, disgusting, dull little cube, known to many and escaped by few. I am determined to be one of those few. I will not let this demonic die get the best of me. For God’s sake, it can fit in the palm of my hand. And it does, quite nicely actually, as I hold it and stare at it. Not only will I write in _spite_ of it, I decide, I will write _about_ it, _just_ to spite it. It’s somewhat smaller than those fuzzy dice you can hang in your rear-view mirror, and infinitely less pleasing to look at. A dark, charcoal grey, like pencil lead, and quite dusty, though it looks as slimy as if it just crawled out of the Black Lagoon. It has no eyes, but as I stare at it, nearly boring a hole in it with my own, it seems to stare back. A haunting, subhuman yet intelligent gaze, as though it were a predator with its eyes locked on its prey; ready, waiting to pounce. I’m picturing Scar from The Lion King in particular, though I don’t know why. Regardless, this prey is fast. She can escape the clutches of death, at least in the literary sense. I can escape the maw of the Writer’s Block, no problem. I simply have to put it down, by my laptop, where I can look it in the eyes as words flow from my fingers through the keyboard and onto my screen. In the eyes. Now it has eyes. When did those get there? I’m certain that they weren’t there when the Block first materialized on my desk. Or were they just closed, waiting to reveal their yellow, catlike selves until I looked away? The Writer’s Block is cunning. Next thing I know, it’ll grow legs and run away. And as my fingers fly across the keys and my eyes remain locked on the hexahedron from hell, it slowly begins to sprout eight thin legs, as grey as the rest of it, and scamper to the edge of my desk. It turns to face me, maintaining steely eye contact as it walks backwards off my desk. I watch, still typing, still flummoxed, as the Writer’s Block scuttles in reverse toward my door. The thought that I might open the door for the Block never even crosses my mind, nor does it occur to the Block itself, by the looks of it. As I watch, the Block’s legs stretch so it’s at a level with the doorknob, all but one. The remaining leg wraps around the doorknob and twists hard, pulling the door toward the Block, which is now swinging from the knob, all eight legs of a size once more. The Block swings back and forth and back and forth, gaining momentum with each swing until it has enough potential energy to Indiana Jones its way around the edge of my door and onto the other doorknob. It has enough energy left over for the follow-through that it closes my door behind it with a surprisingly loud slam. All that’s left of the Writer’s Block is a thin square of charcoal-grey dust on my desk and a page full of inky black words on my screen. I’ve done it. I have conquered the Writer’s Block.


End file.
